


That Huge Incoherent Failure of a Summer

by orphan_account



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: """Old Sport""", A huge incoherent failure of an OC, Gen, Ghosts., Ghosts????, Lots of parties, Parties, SYMBOLISM INTENSIFIES, Slight universe alteration so the Buchanans stayed in East Egg, Two girls in twin yellow dresses, [shrug emoji], intense third-wheeling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-30 20:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6438475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had invested a large sum of money into a mansion on West Egg once owned by the infamous Jay Gatsby. </p><p>It had stood, barren and full with ghosts of the past, for the two years following that man’s death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Golden Highs

In my younger years as a girl, I had a resolve like no other. As my older brothers teased me, I would cry endlessly. I grasped my father’s coat jacket and from then I was invincible. I made a promise to myself in those hazy days.

“I will never cry ever again.” I pouted. “I will not cry after this moment, and nothing you do will make me cry.”

My father would chuckle and pat me on the head. He thought of my resolution as a trait of wild childhood. He had been the only thing I really cared about, my father. He seemed like this strong and immortal figure that no one could touch. My brothers were the torturers and my father was the only chance of safety I had. He inspired me to be strong, which is precisely why I carried that stubborn pride through my entire life. I would boast this drunkenly to strangers who couldn’t care less, I hadn’t cried for twenty years since that day. I thought I wouldn’t ever cry again. Little did I know, I was to break that promise to myself that summer of twenty-four.

I had invested a large sum of money into a mansion on West Egg once owned by the infamous Jay Gatsby. 

It had stood, barren and full with ghosts of the past, for the two years following that man’s death. I had once heard of the parties that Gatsby fellow had thrown. Numerous stories of drunken elegance and golden highs that would last until early morning. The boom of the stock market was ever raging, and the people of New York were desperately trying to recreate the sheer magic of one of those miraculous parties. Everyone knew however, that there was only one place able to restore such a legacy.

And as of that 13th of June, that legacy was mine.

I grew up rich, somewhat. The Adelaides suddenly and randomly came into a great sum of wealth when I was very young, and I still have hazy flashes of the days when I was very simple. My father was far too generous, and many women tried to use that to their advantage. My mother, for reasons still unknown to me, divorced my father after our spree of wealth began.

My single and only goal for purchasing this abandoned mansion was simple. I wanted to recreate the glorious parties. I wanted to become like that fellow Gatsby. I wanted to recreate that wonderful past so that I could enjoy the splendor of being able to throw a fantastic party every Saturday for that summer. As soon as that summer was over, I would take my leave.

My knowledge of Jay Gatsby himself was limited, and almost purely based upon rumor alone. I had most definitely heard of the incident involving his death. Shot by a lunatic who then took his own life after ending Gatsby’s. The hit and run of a poor woman named Myrtle. All connected in one grand story that would be gossiped about forever and beyond. What I did not know, was who Gatsby was outside of the pomp and circumstance. Was he an Oxford man, like some had said? What did he do for a living?

Had Gatsby truly killed a man?

It was that mystery that had further motivated me to purchase that property. Of course I well knew that any and all evidence of his existence would be swept from his home by thieves or equally curious reporters. Everyone had completely forgotten about the man Gatsby. The only Gatsby the people would speak of was the party host Gatsby. The generous and gracious host of alcoholic mayhem every Saturday during the summer two years prior. I wanted to become that host, but greater. I wouldn’t be clouded behind any sort of mystery, I would flock in the celebration with my guests as we danced and laughed into the early morning hours. If anyone came to mention Gatsby, I would be quickly mentioned alongside him, as if we were very good friends.

The entirety of that summer had been completely different from what I had planned.

My purchase of the property had warranted me some attention from the papers, but it brought me no front line. I had simply told them that I would be hosting a grand party in three weeks, and that anyone from anywhere could attend if they had the time.

As I walked through the barren and dusty halls of the house, I examined each and every room. Every closet, every kitchen, and every bedroom I could find had been completely hollowed out. The only furniture in this grand old house were the necessary items that could not be removed. I had hired help come and clean every hall in the house, before moving in all my furniture from my old home. It brought to me a realization of just how massive this estate was when even all the furniture I had owned was not enough to fill it. I simply decided that if it need be, I could go and buy whatever I pleased for my new palace.

The second day was spent wandering the halls another time, still looking for any remnants left from its previous owner. Whoever had cleaned out this home had been as thorough and precise as I had been during my search. I had found in the library however, a small and crumpled ball of paper. Ignored by the cleaning staff and touched by nothing save my passing footsteps, it was a treasure that I had all to myself. It could bring me ten steps forward to the mystery of Gatsby, or it wouldn’t move me at all. I smoothed out the paper, it saw it to be blank. A torn out page of some sort of journal. However, in the upper left corner there was a rushed and barely legible scrawl.

_Nick Carraway_

I had heard that name. From where exactly, I did not remember. The name was circled several times over, clearly of some kind of importance to whoever had written on it.

I immediately thought of Gatsby. Who else would one think of? The man who had previously owned my estate, cloaked in mystery even after his death. My strange desire to learn about him was trivial and fruitless, but I had an entire summer to spend in his house. 

One has to learn about a man before they can step into his shoes, after all.

I immediately went into my search of a Nick Carraway, and I quickly found out about him. He was an author, which might explain why I had heard his name before. What connection he had to Gatsby, I could not yet say. Perhaps he was an attendee of his parties, or even a close friend? I was setting myself up for disappointment, but I would not let this miniscule lead slip from my grasp.

I ringed up his most recent number, and I received an answer after a moment. There was heavy breathing, the man on the other end had ran a marathon to answer my call. “Would this be Mr. Carraway…?” I tried to sound as professional as possible. However, my question was not met with words, only a groan and then the sound of the dial tone. Whoever I had rung, he was clearly unwilling to speak to me.

As I let the tone ring in my ear from the receiver, I let out a long and much needed sigh. Perhaps it was best I didn’t try to dig up information about something I knew so little about. It was then that I felt someone else in the room, glaring into my back.

I whipped my head around, scanning the room for any kind of person. The only things in the room however, were the ring tone and I. Perhaps I was exhausted from my second exploration of the home. There would be more days roaming the halls, of course. I had to know the space in which I would let strangers romp. 

I did become aware of something else later that night. As I tossed and turned in my bed, I felt something shine through the window briefly. A bright, green light that would slowly fade away and then rise back. I walked out onto the balcony into the hot summer night, and peered off into the distance. The light receded and then returned continuously. The light from a dock, most likely from whatever home was across the bay. Over in East Egg, where the old money thrived. I disregarded it. I was a light sleeper, and such things like a dock light would disturb my attempts at resting. I had much to do the next morning, and I needed proper rest. I drew the thick curtains over the windows and the door that led out to the balcony.

Again I felt someone staring into my back.

With a shiver I slowly turned, expecting some kind of presence to be in the room. I was once again alone. I returned to the comfort of my bed and attempted to rest, and I wouldn’t think on that green light for many days after that.

I would spend the 20th of June preparing for the first of many grand parties I was to host. I had my staff arrange and call every assortment of entertainment. Fireworks, flapper dancers, an orchestra, the entire lot. I personally went out and talked to every paper about advertising my endeavor. Again, there was not much attention on that front.

There was a feeling that regardless, people would arrive.

When I returned to my summer estate, I was informed by one of my staff that I had received a call. I inquired as to who it was, I was given the name of one Daisy Buchanan. I faintly knew that name. I did know her spouse quite well, Tom Buchanan was among the richest men alive at the time. Why of all people had Miss Daisy contacted me, I had no idea. And it was so that I rang up the Buchanan’s estate.

“Hello?” An unfamiliar and masculine voice answered from the receiver.

“Good evening, sir. I am Ms. Adelaide, and I was wondering if I might speak to Mrs. Buchanan.”

There was a small moment of silence, as if the man was trying to decipher who I was by voice alone. 

“One moment, Ma’am.” The voice answered, and I was left to my thoughts while I assume the person on the other end had gone to fetch Daisy. Perhaps she had read of my attempts to recreate Gatsby’s parties and wanted to assist in the affair? Her wealth (or, the wealth of her husband) would be a marvelous addition.

“H-Hello? Is this Miss Adelaide?”

An airy and very dainty voice met my ears, and I had to hesitate to regather my thoughts. This must have been Mrs. Buchanan.

“This is Adelaide speaking, yes.” I tried to sound composed and proper, but I felt like even if I trained for years I could never match the sound Misses Buchanan could create when she spoke.

“Oh, I must say how perfectly enchanted I am to know of what you’re doing!” Her voice was like silk, and I could feel sharp pricks of envy and adoration with each syllable she spoke. 

“It has been so incredibly lonely and quiet over here for the longest time…” She sounded as if she might cry.

I was desperate to keep her happy. An unknown part of me wanted to make sure she was never upset, even though I had never seen her in person. Her voice alone had grabbed my entire focus. “That sounds terrible, Mrs. Buchanan. I’m sure your presence alone has kept New York in its entirety from going mad.”

There was a giggle on the other end, and I swore my heart had stopped for a brief moment. What had entranced me so about this woman? I knew I had to invite her to my party, to extend a personal invitation. 

“On the subject of what I have been doing…” I tried to sound as gentle and soothing as possible. I felt as though I was walking on a field of glass, any wrong step would shatter everything. “I would like to extend a personal invitation to you…” I hesitated. “…And your husband too, of course.”

There was dead silence on the other end. My heart had stopped beating, I was sure of it. I wanted to apologize immediately, to offer some kind of compensation for my heinous crime. Then, there came the beautiful sound of Daisy’s dream-like voice. 

“I could think of no better way to spend my weekend, Miss Adelaide!” Her voice rang like bells, and my heart began to beat again with a new rapidness. “I’d… have to see what my husband thinks before I make any kind of concrete decision.”

Ah, I had almost completely forgotten Tom Buchanan had existed. “Of course, of course.” I wanted to sound dainty like Daisy did, I wanted people to look at me and get that same nerve-wracking feeling I had while talking to her over the phone.

I couldn’t possibly be prepared to meet her face to face if I could barely handle her voice. I was painting an elaborate mental picture of her in my mind, it was vivid and beautiful. I could even imagine the smell of flowers and the glint in her eyes as she spoke of something she loved dearly. I wanted to reach out for her.

“I’ll discuss it with Tom and call you as soon as I can give a definitive answer! Thank you so very much for your gracious invitation, Miss Adelad!”

I didn’t even care that she had just gotten my last name completely incorrect. The mere thought that this enchanting woman might come to my party was swarming my head. It was only after a few moments of hearing the dial tone that I became aware I was being watched for the third time.

I let out a gasp and quickly snapped around, but there was no one there. And as soon as I had turned my back to the phone, my infatuation with Daisy Buchanan disappeared along with the strange presence I had felt.

I shook my head, trying to clear it of the ridiculous thoughts I had just been thinking. I just needed more sleep, another busy day out preparing for the outrageous summer had clearly exhausted me. Out of slight paranoia, I requested the staff to look around for any suspicious persons on the property. I sat in my bedroom, anxious for any result. They had all turned up empty handed, and I sighed and fell onto my bed. I stared up at the ceiling, wondering if the heat of the summer was already causing me to hallucinate. Perhaps the sheer size of the mansion was throwing me off? I made up a million mental excuses for my own delusions. 

I rose from my bed and stretched. I had a grand celebration to host, and I wasn’t going to let any summer delusion stop me from my goal. I spent the rest of the day wandering the mostly empty halls of the estate, until I had reached a pastel blue guest room that had a particularly large window on it's eastern wall that looked over the bay. 

When the sun sets over the ocean on West Egg, the sea itself lights on fire. The clouds were a beautiful pink, and after watching that brilliant color float in the sky I decided that I would wear that color for the first party I was to throw. I walked briskly from a lovely pale blue guestroom with an intent to go towards my bedroom and dig passionately through my ocean of dresses until I found that specific cloud in the abyss.

I stopped in the middle of my venture, when I saw a pair of windowed doors that lead out to the pool. I had for the most part left the pool alone. After all, it was that very place that Mr. Gatsby had met with his fate. There had been whispers that it was cursed by his memory. I saw the orange light of sunset splash against the outside and I felt compelled to walk out into it. The pool was drained, of course. I had a feeling that I would not soon fill it. It would feel disrespectful, to let guests splash and poor alcohol down into the water where a legendary man had expired. So I made no request to have the pool filled, I acted as though the pool didn’t exist. Standing even remotely near it made me upset for no good reason. 

I turned my back to the tiled pit in the backyard, and walked back inside my palace. Such depressing thoughts would spoil the party. I needed to find that pink dress I was aching for. On my way up to my room, I was stopped by one of my favorite butlers. A charming man by the name of Wesley. He informed me in his slight French accent that Daisy Buchanan had called and wished to speak with me.

I felt the familiar racing in my heart that I had would grow to acquaint with Daisy’s mention, and I followed Wesley anxiously. I grabbed the phone and put the receiver to my ear. 

“Mrs. Buchanan?”

I sounded slightly out of breath, and I cursed myself for it. It didn’t seem to faze Daisy, who sounded more quiet and reserved than the last time we had spoken. Her voice was still a beautiful piece of music, one that I would listen to over and over if I could.

“I need to apologize, Miss Adelaide.” The melody was somber, and I felt personally responsible for the tone that she was conveying. “I cannot attend your party on the twenty seventh.”

The news make me visibly upset, and I silently thanked whatever benevolent force had made it so she couldn’t see my dramatic reactions to her words. I forced myself into a happy tone, though I could never assure the quality of my acting. “It’s really quite fine, D—Mrs. Buchanan!” I sputtered, about ready to attack myself for almost calling her by her first name unbidden. 

There was a soft bell twinkle of laughter, and I was so lucky that she wasn’t as upset over the issue as I was. “You can call me Daisy, if you wish.” I realized my shoulders were rather tensed, and I relaxed them before answering. “Then please, call me June.”

“June.” The sound of my name on her voice was a miracle in itself. “What a lovely name, June.”

“Surely not as lovely as Daisy, I’d say.” I was determined to make sure she felt above me, even though in many aspects she already was. There was more of that gentle laughter, and there was a moment of calm silence before she spoke again.

“Well June, did you know I live just across the bay from you?” I looked up from the phone and out the window. I cursed my current position, as I couldn’t see the bay from where I was pointed. “I didn't know at all, Daisy. I was beginning to wonder why exactly you had taken interest in me, much less known my number.”

There was a small silence. “Well, I think if I cannot come visit your own home, it stands to reason you should come visit mine." I was entranced by the song she was singing, and now she was giving me the chance to see the songstress in person.

“Well, if it does not inconvenience you or your husband—”

“Oh, it would never! We’re always delighted to have pleasant company visit our home!” She laughed as if she had told a rather amusing joke, and I laughed along just to make it seem like I had understood what the funny part of it was.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to wait for planning our meeting until after my party, I still have much to arrange.” I added, a little hesitantly. I could hear a small huff that most likely accompanied a pout. “Very well, if you must. But don’t think I won’t let you off the hook forever, Juney!” She sang my new nickname, and I split into a wide grin that most likely contorted my face into something hideous.

“Will I ever be able to escape your fury, Mrs. Buchanan?” I joked, and she giggled in response. Our pleasant conversation was interrupted by a voice shouting something incoherent in the background. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you now.” Daisy’s voice had lost its pleasant tone once again. “Thank you for the chat, it was very lovely.” And before I could reply, I heard the dial tone.

I hung up the phone and I returned my facial expression to a blank calm. Was I making a friend in the form of Daisy Buchanan? She seemed interested in more than just the parties I was hosting, and I was racking my brain for any kind of reason that she might want to befriend me. It couldn’t just be I was going to host multiple chaotic celebrations, neither that I simply lived across the bay.

Then the thought hit me in the back of my mind.

Did Daisy Buchanan know anything about Gatsby? Was she so curious in me and my renting of his old palace because it had been where that mysterious man lived and died? The thought raced through my mind as I considered this over and over. Neither Daisy nor Tom were mentioned in the papers regarding Gatsby’s death.

A great many people Gatsby never got to know would attend his parties, perhaps the Buchanans were among them. I was a curious sort, one that would easily and rapidly link unrelated people to an unrelated subject. Perhaps that was the case now.

Perhaps.


	2. Gold in the Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A smile, a ring, and a stranger.

The days sped by, a car driven by a drunken driver who was determined not to stop until they reached their destination. That destination was the Saturday of July second, the very day of the first party I was to host. I had felt a tremendous build up inside of me, and I could only hope the rest of New York was just as anxious as I for the sun to hide behind the hills and welcome the night, where the past would spring to life and run untamed through the halls of my mansion.

There was something peculiar I felt about referring to it as ‘my mansion’, as if even its previous owner’s passing of two years was not enough to complete my ownership. 

I spent that morning sleeping in, for I knew that if I was to be a gracious host I had to reserve my energy for what was to come. I let my staff deal with the set up, and only the occasional butler asking of ‘between which types of silverware did I prefer’ disturbed my rest. 

I am still not aware of how long I had slept, but by the time I awoke the sun was still up and I cursed it quite a few times. My eye did catch the glint of the green light, and again I walked out onto the balcony to inspect it. Perpetually fading and then springing back to life, it took me a good few minutes to realize that the light was most likely tied to the home of Daisy Buchanan.

She had told me in her soft bell of a voice that I had lived just across the bay from her only a few weeks ago. I hadn’t received a call from her since, unfortunately. Whatever had stolen her attention from me was probably stressful for her, and I was very displeased by the thought.

I still had yet to meet her face to face.

I looked down from the light, and watched with simple amusement as the staff scurried about. They carried decorations and the occasional pastry, which I would guiltily indulge in slightly before my guests were to arrive. I had extended no invitations to anyone, save the one I gave to Daisy. And her husband, of course.

I ended up leaving the grand space of my bedroom and wandering the halls, this time they were more alive with decoration and the sounds of hasty preparation. I was approached from behind by Wesley, my aforementioned butler of a certain favoritism. 

“What would you wish to do with the pool, Ma’am?”

I hesitated. Which is always a terrible thing to do when someone asks you a question. It means they know you’re thinking of a different way to reply, you’re hiding the true feeling that you wish to convey. The pool was still empty, and the only reason it was cleaned out was because there were a great many leaves piled at the bottom when I had first arrived. A man had died there, and I felt personally responsible for keeping his place of death well-kept and respected.

“Leave it empty, and make sure guests know it is off-limits.”

Wesley gave a polite nod and walked in the opposite direction. I felt as though I had done a great and mighty service for the departed, and I continued to walk through the now glittering halls with a new-found feeling of inspiration.

I found my mind wandering to the mysterious Jay Gatsby. More specifically, his death and the events following it. It was the only part of him I knew the best, after all. His funeral was apparently small and kept only to those who had personally knew him. I imagine that if it had been open, almost half of New York would have wept over his corpse. There weren’t many people out there who would be so bold as to host grand parties for no price at all. The realization that I was soon to be among that small pool of people made me feel prideful. 

Around six o’clock that evening, the entertainment began to arrive. I made sure to greet every dancer, every composer, and every musician with a hand shake and the warmest smile I could deliver. They all exchanged the same expression of being excited or anxious for the first major party of the summer. As they got set up, I walked through every hall and inspected every room to make sure it was all up to my standard.

The only things closed off were my own bedroom, and the pool. I was sure there would be complaints about the pool, but I had my own firm convictions and I would stick to them. Hours had passed, and I stood in my finest dress, a shade of pink that envied the brightest of sunset clouds. I felt my excitement rise to the boiling point, and at last I signaled for the gates and front entrance doors to be opened.

I immediately felt the excitement burst from my mouth in the form of wicked laughter when I heard the excited commotion of a crowd coming through. Wave after wave swept into the main ballroom, and I watched over them all with an excited grin slapped across my face.

I watched as guests of all kinds would point at me and whisper to each other. The music started up and drinks were passed around on trays, and within minutes the party was in full swing. I had never seen such an immense gathering of life before, I could have sworn all of New York had come to my celebration.

All of New York, I remembered, excepting Daisy Buchanan.

There was a slight drop in my mood, and desperate to keep my spirits high, I grabbed a glass of champagne and drank. Some spectators noticed my drinking and took this as a signal to begin the true party. I was swept through crowds and introduced to numerous faces and names I would not remember the next morning. I danced, drank, and at one point kissed another woman full on the lips. I remember vaguely dismissing some staff guarding the pool and drunkenly sliding my way down, inviting everyone nearby to join me in a fit of drunken dancing.

I was breaking every rule I had set for myself after an hour of hosting my own party. I couldn’t have cared less. 

After I’d emptied my stomach at the bottom of the pool and crawled my way out, I made my way back up to my position at the top of the grandest stair case, overlooking the wild crowd. My thoughts were obscured by the alcohol’s influence, but I remember one detail very specifically about looking down into that crowd.

My eyes caught the sight of a smile.

A smile that transcended understanding and delved straight into acceptance, and I felt as if every rule I had broken and every flaw that I had were forgiven in an instant. Any and all hardships I had ever experienced were wiped from my memory, and my eyes widened in sheer awe. The more I looked into that incredible smile, the more beautiful and loved I felt. That grin had drowned out the sounds of partying and music, and for a small moment in time I thought everyone had left, and I was alone with this figure and their dazzling smirk. 

I snapped back into reality, and when I tried to find the owner of that luminescent smile it had already vanished into the crowd. I was incredibly drunk and desperate to feel that all-accepting feeling again. I ran down the stairs, pushing past people and servants. It was then I impacted with a truly nauseating feeling. I looked up to the ceiling to try and clear the impulse to empty my stomach that was returning.

There was gold in the air, and every time I took a breath I’d inhale it in and choke on it. I was surrounded by a hurricane of color and sound, and I could feel myself losing balance. I fell to the floor with a dizzy cry. I was staring down at the floor, trying to take deep breaths but choking on the gold. 

It was then that someone grabbed my upper arm and hoisted me back onto my feet.

I didn’t look at their face, I was drunk and extremely out of sorts. The only thing I remember clearly was the cold of a ring on their littlest finger pressing into my arm as they pulled me through the crowd. I stumbled and held in the urge to hurl as the stranger dragged me from the hurricane and into a calmer sea.

With the sounds of the chaos echoing through the halls, I emptied my stomach for the second time that night into a rubbish bin. I clutched the floor as I took deep breaths, my lungs free from the crowd and the gold that polluted the air. 

It was only after I recovered from that bout of nausea that I realized I was in my bedroom. It was only place left guests were not allowed to enter, as I had violated the sanctity of the pool in my drunken mess. I was still under the influence at the time however, so I simply giggled at the memory of the pool.

I then remembered that someone had saved me from the overwhelming crowd, so I looked up and mumbled out a drunken thanks. 

Whoever had led me was already gone.

I squinted, as if perhaps they were hidden in plain sight and I needed a different perspective to find them. There was nothing where they were standing previously, nothing save for a ring. A ring sitting on the floor alone and abandoned. I was still on my knees, and I crawled desperately out and snatched the ring from its position. 

It was still cold in my hand, and I clenched it and brought it to my chest as if it were my grandmother’s long lost jewelry that I had been in a desperate search for. My only memento of the stranger who had saved me from my own party.

I had learned that night I couldn’t handle alcohol very well at all, and many of the guests would laugh and mock my delusional behavior. It was only one in the morning when I gave up my attempts to stay lively. With that freezing token on my ring finger, I crawled into my bed and attempted to sleep through the storm that was my party.

The alcohol did me no favors.

As soon as I opened my eyes next, I immediately shut them and groaned. I had a pounding headache and the light of the room was only making it worse. I slowly sat up and after a few moments make another scramble for the rubbish bin. I was surprised I had anything left in my stomach to puke up at that point. There was a tray on my nightstand with a glass of water and two pills, most likely left by Wesley.

I grabbed at the glass and pills and swallowed it down greedily. As I moved the glass to my right hand, I heard a sharp clink. I remembered the ring, and then the stranger, and then finally that breathtaking smile. It was only then in my more sober state that I thought they might have been connected. I thought over the success of my party, and smiled to myself.  
Of course, then I remembered the pool and almost shrieked. I had slept in my lovely pink dress, which was now full of wrinkles and contained various stains. I stood up far too quickly and swayed dizzily in an attempt to regain my balance before rushing out of my room.

The world outside of my bedroom was a mess. Decorations that were pinned up high were torn down, spills of various alcohols spread throughout the floor. I even saw some unconscious fellows laying on couches or in each other’s laps. There was apparently a car crash out front, and the person driving had given up on trying to leave and fell asleep at the wheel. They were still snoozing. There was already staff cleaning, and I almost pitied all the work that they had to do.

I continued my path to the pool, and I let out a gasp of horror when I saw what I had done. There were empty bottles of champagne rolling amongst stray beads and in the center of it all, a dried up spot of last night’s nausea. It was a horrible sight, and I immediately made a large portion of the staff clean it so that it looked as if it hadn’t been touched. I mumbled a quiet apology to no one for the state it had been in.

I returned to my bedroom and exchanged my now destroyed pink dress for a much calmer gray one. It was Sunday now, which meant that it would be five days until I had to re-endure the golden chaos of another party. I quickly came to the decision that I wouldn’t drink during that one, thus redeeming for my sins with the pool.

I had overslept completely and awoken at eleven o’clock that morning. I had never attended or hosted any party, and to have my first be something of such a large scale was a mistake on my part. As the staff cleaned up, I stood on the top of the largest staircase that I had watched the party from. I remembered once again that awe-inspiring smile and stared absentmindedly at the exact spot I had seen it, lost in trying to recreate its legend in my mind.

I then realized that there was one person who could have identified that stranger who so kindly led me to my room. “Wesley” I called out, and after a few moments he was approaching me from the stairs. I had appointed Wesley to guard the door to my bedroom so no wandering guests would come in and make a mess of it. He must had seen the stranger that had saved me.

“Do you remember the fellow that led me to my room last night?”

He looked at me with a quirked brow.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

“Around half past midnight I was guided to my quarters by some stranger. Did you see their face?” I was so close to finding the ring’s owner. I couldn’t just keep the thing, regardless of how nice or expensive looking it was.

“Do forgive me, but no one was guiding you to your room. You had arrived there by yourself, and no one else entered or exited your room.” It was my turn to raise a brow, and I shook my head.

“I swear there was someone guiding me, they were holding on to my upper arm and-”

I stopped myself. I considered how unfathomably drunk I was at the time, and considered placing the confusion on the idea that I had imagined someone leading me to my room. There was no one who knew exactly where to find it but myself, and I didn’t remember stopping or turning around when I was being guided.

That didn’t explain the ring, however. Had a guest slipped by Wesley while he was otherwise preoccupied? Whatever the case was, I would surely receive some call regarding the ring from whoever owned it if it was of significant value to them.

There were a few calls regarding repossessing lost items, but none of them contained any kind of ring in their description. It just furthered my confusion and I simply decided that maybe I should just leave the idea alone and accept that I had acquired a brand new ring.

I did receive a call from Daisy Buchanan that evening. She tittered on about how she could see the lights of my home and how she watched the fireworks from her mansion across the bay. I told her a few stories from my hazy memory of the evening and we both laughed together about it. It was then she brought up the fact that now I had to visit her estate sometime within the week.

“Oh Juney, you certainly must!” She insisted, and I grinned at the sound of my nickname. “I do have five days for you to choose from, whatever time is convenient for you.” I didn’t expect there to be any kind of pressing demand from her.

“Could you come over now?” Daisy inquired, and I was actually a little shocked. “You mean right now?” I replied, and I could hear her airy giggle. “Of course I mean right now, there is no other now!” I tensed up a little. “Well…” I hesitated, and I could almost hear her pouting. She was one of my greatest weaknesses and we had never met in person before.

“…I’ll need some time to get myself ready, but I could do now.” There was a squeal of delight from the receiver, and I let out a small sigh of relief. “Oh I’m just shivering with excitement! I’ll arrange some tea and we can talk more of your party!”

Nothing had sounded better in that moment, I thought. To get away from the mess of my current estate and see the face that belonged to the enchanting voice of Daisy Buchanan. “I should leave you to get ready, shouldn’t I?”

“If you want now to come sooner.”

The dial tone came on the receiver as soon as I had said those words. I chuckled softly and in excited bounds make my way back to my room. I re-did my hair and makeup, and adjusted my gray dress. _‘This would be fine for tea, right? Nothing too fancy, but not overly casual either.’_

Wesley was my chauffeur, and I sat in the back of my favorite dark red coupé as we made the drive from West Egg over to East Egg. I began to see the shift from grand mansions to grander palaces as we continued onward. It was somewhat simple to find the Buchanan’s estate, seeing as they were across the bay from my own home. It was a little strange seeing my mansion from the other side.

I told Wesley to go out for at least an hour, and as he drove off I made my way up to the grand gates. I immediately regretted sending Wesley away, seeing as there was at least a quarter of a mile that I had to walk to reach the front door of the estate. I felt a little embarrassed by my own stupidity as I made the long walk through the summer heat.

By the time I had reached the door, I was sweating quite terribly. I actually waited a few minutes before knocking so I could regain my composure and wipe some of the sweat from my face. I knocked on the front door, and admired the sheer size of the palace around me. I had thought my own place was of intimidating size, but this had taken my own home and made it seem minuscule.

The door was answered by a butler who looked intensely judgmental. He looked me up and down before asking my business. I informed him that Daisy was expecting my company, and I was told to wait while he went to confirm this information. I spent a few more minutes out in the blistering heat, until the door was opened once again.

I had expected the same butler, or perhaps a different butler. I was met by someone who I was very sure had never worked as a staff hand before. He was incredibly intimidating, and his face read of arrogance as he stared down at me. He was well built, and I assumed he participated in some kind of sport that kept him so in shape. He seemed to me as the type of man who could look into the eyes of a child who had dropped their ice cream and add insult to injury by spitting on it.

“So.” His tone was already accusatory. “You’re the woman who’s living in that hovel across the bay.”

It was a sting to my ego, the use of the world ‘hovel’ to describe my home. I didn’t want to start any sort of argument with this hulking character, so I simply nodded. 

“A woman living by herself…” He leaned forward just a bit. “…Who’s paying for all that, hmm?”

He was already accusing me of some illegal act, I could tell by his attitude. I didn’t want to admit that I was running off my father’s funds, nor refuse to answer and give him ammo to attack me further. I was also slightly offended that he thought me incapable of handling my own funds. It was then that I was saved by a gentle arm that brushed over the man’s shoulder.

“Tom.” An all-too-familiar voice rang. “You’re scaring her, you brute.”

The man that had been digging into my personal life was Tom Buchanan, Daisy’s husband. It had done nothing to ease the tension, if only thicken it. My shoulders were tensed again, and I tried to relax as much as possible.

It was then Daisy Buchanan finally revealed herself, and I stood in awe at the doorway as I admired her figure. She was a blonde, which a lovely bob haircut that accentuated her face perfectly. She carried a default expression of naivety, and I controlled the impulse to try and hug her. Daisy however, did not control that same impulse.

I was scooped into a hug, and I breathed in the scent of various flowers on her person. The pearls of an elaborate necklace clacked together as she pulled away, and we made eye contact. There was not a single thing I had found dis-likable about her, save the fact that she was so likable. Tom cleared his throat, and I extended my left hand properly.

“Adelaide. June Adelaide.”

He took my small hand into his larger one, and shook rather intensely. “Tom Buchanan.” His gruff voice answered.

Daisy grabbed me by the left wrist and pulled me into the house. I didn’t have much time to admire the decorations or the design of certain halls as I was pulled through the seemingly endless corridors of the Buchanan mansion. I looked over my shoulder to see that Tom was following close behind.

I was pulled into a room in which the windows were all opened, causing white curtains to flutter through the room. It was a simple tea room, I thought. There were plate placements for four, which I found odd considering that there was only to be three of us dining. When I inquired as to why this was, Daisy had simply told me she invited someone else to join us. 

A butler filled our cups with tea, and I requested a small amount of cream and sugar to go with mine. Daisy sat at the front, while Tom and I sat on either side of her. The empty plate for the other guest was placed next to me. 

Daisy had begun idly telling her husband about some of the stories I had told her earlier, and I reached out my right hand and picked up the tea cup. As I brought it to my lips, I noticed Daisy staring at my hand. She looked as though I had been shot dead right in front of her. I pulled the cup away.

“Daisy? Is something the matter?”

She pointed at the ring I was wearing. The ring I had obtained from my party.

“W-Where did you get that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Updates the story even though there was no demand]  
> [Apologizes again]


	3. Painful Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery deepens.

My answer came unbidden, yet sounded surprisingly calm.

“I bought it.”

The relief on Daisy Buchanan’s face was not instant, but it gradually came forward. Tom Buchanan’s brow was furrowed as he stared at the ring, trying to figure out what had alarmed his wife so about it. There was a look on his face that said ‘I’ve seen this ring before, but where I can’t remember’. 

A small and horrible thought crossed my mind. What if this ring had belonged to Daisy, or one of her acquaintances? I would be branded a thief and a liar. I prayed that this was not the case, hopefully Mrs. Buchanan had simply suffered from a bout of déjà vu.

“It was in a charming little shop down in New York.” I continued to lie. “I couldn’t resist buying it, it practically spoke to me.”

Daisy had an uneasy smile on her face, and her husband looked severely suspicious of me. There was a long and painful silence in which I considered standing up and making my goodbyes, excusing myself for some important business I just remembered I had not attended to.

Then I remembered I had sent Wesley away for an hour.

A string of curse words went through unfiltered through my mind, and I tried to keep a neutral expression while I considered how terrible my position was currently. I looked down into my cup of tea, but I felt the gazes of both the Buchanans much like the mystery gaze I often felt in my own home.

A butler walked into the room, cutting through the silence and most likely saving my life.

“Mrs. Buchanan.” An uptight voice talked as I continued to glare down into my teacup. “Ms. Jordan Baker has arrived.”

Jordan Baker. I had sworn that I had heard that name before. If they were the fourth party Daisy had mentioned, then it could either improve my situation or make it far, far worse. A woman of strict posture and bobbed brown hair strode into the room, her eyes scanning Tom and Daisy’s faces before resting upon mine.

There was something sharp about the woman I presumed to be Jordan Baker. Something that told me she had secrets to hide, and she hid them so gracefully and without hesitation that you could easily convince yourself she never had any secrets at all. 

“Daisy…” Her eyes were kept trained on me. “Is this that June woman you were telling me about?”

Daisy jumped slightly in her seat. She was incredibly on edge for no reason at all. “…Yes! Yes, this is her!” She had remained silent for a moment before she started that sentence, as if she were trying to determine if I really was that June woman.

In long, elegant strides she made her way over and extended her left hand. “Jordan Baker.” She introduced herself, and I reached out my right hand and shook hers from my seat. The sharp woman’s eyes went wide as she turned her hand so the ring I regretted not taking off was showing clearly. 

“Where did you get this?” She inquired with shock. I was already beginning to tire of the question.

“She bought it.”

Daisy answered the question for me, and I saw the two women exchange a glance that I can only interpret as knowing yet secretive. My hand slid from Jordan’s impressive grip and I quietly turned back to watching my teacup. Their behavior was stiff and unusual, and it seemed that only Tom and I were unaware of what exactly the ring signified for the both of them.

Tom decided to take the initiative in changing the subject.

“So, Ms. Adelaide.” His gruff voice cut in aggressively. “I understand you invited my wife to your party.”

Of all the subjects Tom could have chosen to change the atmosphere, he had chosen the only one that could have made it worse.

“I invited you as well, and I consider it a great misfortune both of you were unable to attend.” The reply was directed into my teacup. There was a ‘huh’ as a reply from Tom, and again we were stuck in silence. I supposed it was my turn to try and re-direct the conversation.

“So!” I burst out, looking up at the group who seemed caught off guard. “How long have you been living here in East Egg?”

The question seemed to take off some pressure, yet there was still a small lingering awkwardness in the air. Daisy was the first to attempt an answer. “Oh, it has been some time… five, six years?”

“Time flies by quickly, doesn’t it?” Jordan’s voice asked, dull and not expecting an answer. 

“It does, and I think now is a good time to move.” Tom cut in, and Daisy pouted.

“Oh, don’t start this conversation up again-”

“I’m telling you, this place has worn out its civility! We should be packing up before we’re overtaken by the uncivilized folk!” Tom’s argument was fueled only by his aggression, and Daisy didn’t answer him. “Oh, but you can’t just leave.” Jordan didn’t sound particularly interested in the conversation, I was willing to bet she had heard this argument a great many times.

“If you leave, then New York loses the only civility it has left.” I found myself saying, and Tom looked somewhat surprised by my words. He thought over them, turning it in his mind and taking it in like a fine wine. Jordan looked incredulously at me, I had just openly insulted her and everyone I knew. I had just referred to my entire family as uncivilized, all for the sake of extending the stay of the Buchanans in East Egg.

Or, extending Daisy’s stay.

Tom let out a hearty laugh. “I suppose your right! We’re the only thing holding this place up, huh?”

“The only thing keeping New York from going mad.” Daisy whispered to herself, and I recalled those to be my own words.

“Maybe we can restore some civility, eh? Teach the lesser how to behave and act, like monkeys!” His laughter filled the room, Daisy and Jordan simply smiled while I sat there in confusion. For the first time since the tea party had started, I drank my tea. It was already cold.

The rest of the evening had gone pretty well after that. Tom exchanged his tea for glasses of whiskey, and was fairly drunk within an hour. He was more entertaining that way, ranting on about this and that. I learned that Jordan Baker was engaged, and had been for almost a year. Soon she would be referred to as Jordan Williams, she kept telling me. 

There was a topic floating in the air, a discussion that was waiting to be had. I didn’t know at the time, but all three of the people I had been associating with were actively avoiding the subject. That was, until I brought it up.

We were discussing golf, and Jordan Baker was telling us all about how there was this man who had been following her to every game. She mentioned how she never learned who he was or why he had liked her so. It was then I said the phrase that would trigger the start of something I would not be able to control.

It was a simple sentence, and I will admit to it being not of my own invention. I had heard it repeated by various different guests at my party, before, during, and after my wild drunken fit.

“A mystery to rival Gatsby’s own, I’m sure.”

I had never in my life seen a woman’s face go so pale, nor a man’s face go so red in such a short span of time. The name was cursed, and my utterance of it had condemned them both for death. Even Jordan Baker, who had seemed apathetic to the whole event, now was in a state of shock. It seemed as though it was now time to return my gaze to the teacup.

There was nothing but agonizing silence, and when I glanced up I noticed Daisy glaring painfully at my ring. I didn’t need to look up to know that Tom was glaring bullets into me. Jordan Baker seemed to be the only person who wasn’t completely horrified by my mention of Gatsby’s name.

“Hm…” The golfer cupped her chin with one hand, resting against the table with it. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”

I was curious as to why the atmosphere had gone from calm to a choking pressure by the mere mention of his name. “Did any of you… know Mr. Gatsby?” I had pushed my luck and their patience far too much. Daisy stood up from her chair and excused herself, walking out of the room hurriedly and devoid of any elegance. Tom was soon to follow his wife, and then it was just Jordan and I in the room.

“I knew him.”

I looked up, honestly shocked Jordan was still here. She had this look on her face, it had changed from shocked to that unusual secretive expression she shared with Daisy. “You live in his house now, don’t you?”

I mumbled something about it being only for that summer. She waved it off. “He was… Hmm, how do I describe Gatsby?” I was on the edge of my seat, eager and ready to learn more of the mysterious man who once lived in my home.

“He was-”

“Pardon me, Miss Adelaide.”

That judgmental butler from the front door was standing at the entrance to the room, looking at me with particular disgust. “Your chauffeur is here.”

I cursed Wesley’s timing. I cursed Jordan Baker’s cocky expression as I stood up and excused myself. I cursed Daisy and her husband for causing me to think wildly upon their connection with Gatsby. I cursed Jay Gatsby himself for being so _damn mysterious_. 

I quietly told the butler to give Daisy and Tom Buchanan my thanks for the evening, and that I had enjoyed myself. I was walked to the door by that awful butler, and he closed the door quite readily as I stepped out. I had an eerie feeling that Mr. Buchanan would be very hesitant to let me in his house again as I walked to my dark red coupé, thankful I wouldn’t have to walk that quarter mile again. 

Wesley must have seen the conflicted expression on my face, for he didn’t inquire as to how the evening had gone as we slowly drifted away from the Buchanan mansion, and East Egg entirely. I was racking my mind the entire journey back home as to why the Buchanans were so shaken on the subject of my ring and the mention of Gatsby. I twirled the ring around my ring finger, letting out a much needed sigh.

It wasn’t an elaborate or jewel-encrusted ring, like the kind I saw Daisy Buchanan wear on her slim fingers as we drank tea. It was a simpler ring, with a simple loop design on its face. The shape and design was made for the smallest finger on a male, so I had to wear it on my ring finger to keep it from sliding. It was merely a metal ring of no particular value, so the thought that it might belong to Daisy or anyone she was well acquainted with was officially put to rest.

Then there was the taboo and ridiculous thought in the back of my mind. 

The thought that only great fools or incredibly drunken people might have.

Did this ring belong to Gatsby?

The reactions of the Buchanans to the ring and Gatsby’s mention were similar in painful silence, and even Jordan Baker had seem relatively surprised by both. Of course, this connection conflicted with one great big issue: Jay Gatsby was dead and buried six feet under the ground. If he had some kind of ring on his person, it was likely buried with him or stolen from his home, like everything else he had once owned. If the ring had been there the entire time, someone of my staff or I would have found it before the party had occurred. It just didn’t make sense.

Yet I was so determined to find reasons why that would be true. I couldn’t base a conclusion on reactions alone. I needed some kind of other evidence that it was his. Were there pictures of him wearing it? I could only hope that such a picture existed. As Wesley pulled up to the driveway, I decided that I would put these ridiculous thoughts of mine to rest by finding any and all pictures of Gatsby and comparing them to the ring I had found.

I was already guilty of owning several newspapers regarding his death, only for the interviews of people commenting on the state of his parties. There were pictures provided, and I could see in some of them there was a ring on his finger. I couldn’t determine if it was the same as mine, however. Unless someone had taken a direct photograph of that ring on his finger, I would never truly know.

“Ma’am.”

I turned from my pile of newspaper clippings and saw a butler that wasn’t Wesley standing politely at the door to my bedroom.

“There is a Ms. Jordan Baker on the phone-”

I didn’t even let the poor man finish his sentence before I made my way out of the room and towards the phone. I tried to regulate the speed at which I walked, just so I wouldn’t sound completely out of breath by the time I made it to the phone.

“Miss Baker?”

There wasn’t a breathless sound to my voice, but there was definitely a tone of anticipation.

“I hope you don’t mind, Daisy lent me your number.”

So Daisy wasn’t refusing to speak of me. I felt that piece of worry drop off my shoulders. 

“I figured I couldn’t just leave you writhing in agony about Gatsby, especially when I had tantalized you so.”

Was my curiosity so obvious? I felt a little ashamed of myself for not withholding my urges to learn of him.

“How is Daisy?” I found myself asking. Many statements left my mind without censorship that day.

“Oh, she’s fine. Daisy just hasn’t heard that name for a very long time.”

Though Jordan Baker had just somewhat apologized to tantalizing me, I quickly found she was going at it again.

“Why?” I asked, this time of my own volition. Why the painful silence? Why hasn’t Daisy heard Gatsby’s name for such a long time? Why was I so consumed by the desire to learn about him? Any answer I would accept wholeheartedly. 

“Daisy and Gatsby were… quite close once.”

The words were like music to my ears. The connection that I had subconsciously made was actually true, and I felt the impulse to shout ‘I knew it!’ into the phone. Instead, I kept myself controlled and unimpulsive like the proper lady I was supposed to be.

“Quite close…? You mean, like lovers?”

There was a hesitation on the other end. Jordan Baker was reluctant to share.

“I swore I wouldn’t tell, I’m afraid. That’s all I’m willing to admit.”

I could practically hear the smirk on Jordan’s face. I wanted to strangle the truth out of her, but I was only limited to gripping the phone fiercely.

“Who… Who made you swear?”

I tried to sound as un-irked as possible, but by the soft laugh I heard on the other end I knew I had failed. 

“Why, Gatsby himself did.”

I understood that perhaps Jordan’s reluctance to break her swear was under the pretense that the man she had sworn to had died, and she wished to respect the only wish he had made of her. I still felt myself wanting to ask her to break it and tell me every last detail she knew.

“You met Gatsby in person?” I asked in place of all other statements I had wanted to express.

“I did indeed. He was a… fine gentleman. Very polite, never intended to hurt anyone.”

There was a tone to her voice, I knew she was hiding something. I couldn’t prod however, as she was sworn not to say a word.

“His parties were… Well, almost indescribable. He was a mystery to everyone. He had once requested me by name to talk privately.” She boasted quite obviously about what she had known about him, and I found myself wondering why if she had so much to tell… Why didn’t she talk to any papers about her encounters? That was another question that went unasked. 

“Was Gatsby an Oxford man?” I asked gingerly, it was one of the things I felt Jordan could answer without breaking her divine promise.

“Somewhat.” 

“Somewhat? What does that mean, somewhat?”

“It means he was somewhat of an Oxford man.”

She was being indirect with her response, I knew it to be true. She was teasing me, trying to get a rise out of me. Though I didn’t know exactly why. 

“Of course, I don’t know nearly as much about him as Nick did.”

Nick. Nick… Where had I heard that name before?

“Nick?”

“Ah, there I go again tantalizing you with things you’ll never-”

“Nick Carraway?”

I had found the name on my lips, and there was a shocked silence on Jordan Baker’s end. I felt a little proud that I had beaten her on the game of teasing.

“Why… Yes, it was Nick Carraway.” She sounded a little bitter, though it seemed as if the subject was more now than just me beating her at her own game.

“That author who lives mid-west?” I wanted to continue to shock her with my information, but it seemed as though I was irritating her greatly, as my only reply was a very bitter sounding “Yes”. 

“What does he know about Gatsby?”

There was another silence. I begged silently that this too wasn’t another thing she had sworn she would not tell of, and to my great relief she allowed that piece of information to pass through her lips and into the phone line.

“He was Gatsby’s neighbor.”

His neighbor… Meaning he had once occupied that small bungalow that was just next to my current estate. He must have left after Gatsby had died. “Were they particularly close?”

Again, silence.

“One could say that.”

It was another typical response that I expected from Jordan. Something vague and so close to the answer I wanted that I continued in a trivial pursuit that lasted for at least an hour, and by the near end of it I was no closer to Gatsby then I had been before the call had started.

“My, would you look at the time.” Jordan’s voice was full of haughty pride, and I wanted to hit her until her nose broke for the extreme irritated feeling I felt by that statement. She knew full well of how long she had kept me, dangling me from the edge of her knowledge regarding Gatsby.

“It has been quite a while, hasn’t it?” I didn’t try to disguise the bitter tone in my voice. There was a small giggle. I wanted to scream. 

“I won’t keep you on the phone much longer… June, was it?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Well June, there is one thing I just can’t keep from you.”

“And what would that be?”

“That ring you wear so nicely upon your right hand… It looks exactly like the one Gatsby had worn on his littlest finger.”

And with that statement, Jordan Baker hung up. There was pure white noise in my ears as I processed that information. The idea that I had considered ridiculous and completely unfathomable was suddenly fathomable again. Jordan Baker had held me by a string the entire time, and then suddenly dropped me into the abyss that was Jay Gatsby.

I pulled the ring off my finger, staring at it as if I was looking down at the very corpse of the man himself. What did this mean? Why had I only just last night discovered this ring on my floor? I was in a completely different place, I was no longer standing in my own home. I was standing in the mansion of Jay Gatsby, and I was clearly trespassing into a life I knew nothing about.

I sloppily put the phone back onto the receiver, and holding the ring tight in my grip I charged my way back into my bedroom. I started to dig frantically through the newspaper clippings, desperate for some sign that Jordan Baker’s words were correct. 

There was an article I hadn’t seen before. A paper laid out just out of reach beyond the pile of clippings, with a small note attached.

‘I thought you might have wanted to see this.’

It was Wesley’s handwriting, plain and simple. It was an article from a Newspaper company I hadn’t quite heard before. The Sycamore, the title read. It was another piece regarding Gatsby’s death. The headline was ‘Mysterious Jay Gatsby Died as He Had Lived’, and I assumed it would have led onto say ‘A mystery’. There was a picture aligned in the center, with the article surrounding it.

It was meant to be an artistic shot, aimed from the hands crossed over his chest angling upwards towards his sharp jaw. The only thing I could see within the picture, was the ring. It was, just as Jordan Baker had said, exactly like the ring I was clutching in my hand. He was wearing it in his coffin, and that normally meant that he should have been wearing it during his burial.

Why then, was it resting in my hand?

I could have made the base assumption that there was more than one type of this particular ring. That I was simply delusional and desperate to center myself in the mystery of a man I had never met and never would meet. That didn’t feel right, however. Daisy’s reaction to seeing it, Jordan’s final words before she had hung up our call—I couldn’t just place it down upon mere coincidence.

I was holding Jay Gatsby’s ring in my right hand, and I had absolutely no idea where it had come from.


End file.
